pride's castle

Front matter

Ashs | NOVEL

RIDE'S GASTLE

His thundering masterwork of lust and power

Chapter One—1870

THEY WERE NOT CITY MEN—anyone could see that at a glance. But it was not their dress that betrayed them. If anything, Pride Dawson and Tim McCarthy were better dressed than the New Yorkers who thronged about them. Their gray derbies with the wide silk bands were oppressively new, and their wing collars were starched into knifeblade sharpness above the rich watered silk of their scarves, which were tied in the fashionable Ascot puff and held by glittering stickpins. In everything they wore they were identical, from the loose-fitting black English sack coats with self-vests, and the contrasting striped trousers, down to their patent-leather Congress shoes with sides which gave comfortably with every step.

No, it was not their clothes. Rather, it was something in the way they wore them—as though they were unaccustomed to so much finery. A suit can be made to fit a man in a matter of days, but it takes years to fit a man for the casual wearing of finely tailored clothes. And yet it was more than merely their faint suggestion of awkwardness— it was the men themselves. Tim McCarthy, wide-shouldered and thick-limbed, built as square as a box, dwarfed the smaller city men in breadth if not always in height; but Pride Dawson dwarfed even him.

Tim was red-faced and rugged, with grave gray eyes and reddish hair; but Pride Dawson was a sight to see. He _ stood six foot four in his bare feet, and his face, beneath his coarse black hair, looked as though it had been blasted out of granite, leaving features of elemental strength. His mouth was big, with a touch of wry humor about it; and his eyes were as black as his hair. His nose looked as though it had been broken, which, as a matter of fact, it had been on several occasions in gargantuan tavern brawls; his chin was jutting and square, Point by point these oddly assorted features should have added up to plain ugliness; but strangely enough they did not. Perhaps it was his eyes, normally filled with gleeful mockery, which could change in half a heart-beat to ferocious savagery; or his mouth, always half-smiling, as if he were secretly amused at himself and the world. 7

There is a certain atavistic strain in women—and often in men, too—that makes them admire physical bigness and easy strength. That was part of his attraction. At any rate, to the end of his days, men and women alike described Pride Dawson as handsome. They were, all things considered, not entirely wrong.

He stood in the sunlight on the Bowery, and watched the scurrying crowds. He grinned at them quietly, complacently, and his hand moved, tossing an object into the air and catching it deftly. As it rose and fell, it glittered in the sunlight.

Tim knew what it was: a nugget of pure gold, polished into rounded smoothness and attached to a small chain. On it a jeweler in San Francisco had engraved: Pride Dawson— His Luck!

Luck, Tim thought, we'll need luck now. Only got three hundred and fifty of the stake we came East on. Sold that mine for nearly five thousand—and now look at us. Fine duds and empty pockets. And every saloon and bawdy house between here and ’Frisco’s got rich off Pride. I shouldn’t have loaned him any of mine. He swears he'll pay it back, and he will, too—that’s one thing Pride’s honest about. But now I’ve got to wait. Can’t send for Lucy and the kid. Oh, well—I’ve waited this long—a little longer won't hurt... .

The crowds did not merely move along the Bowery, they - swarmed. The street was a river of humanity, surging forward, piling up momentarily at the corners asa carriage or a horse-car blocked its way, then eddying around the obstacles, to plunge onward again. The air was alive with sounds: the rustle and swish of the women’s skirts sweeping the sidewalks, the rumble of a ten-horse brewery wagon, snatches of greetings tossed back over a shoulder in passing, the cries of the hawkers, even music of a sort, echoing thinly from the opened door of a concert saloon.

Tim McCarthy looked up at Pride Dawson.

“Well,” he growled, “we're here.”

Pride did not answer. He pushed his new derby to the very back of his big head and, taking out a cigar, stuck it — into the corner of his mouth. Then his hand moved out slowly and scraped the match with some deliberation down the thigh of the wooden Indian in front of a cigar store. He drew in upon the cigar, inhaling the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, then letting it trail in twin blue-gray streamers from his nostrils. It moved upward, veiling his face. Like a cloud, Tim thought suddenly, like a cloud around a hang of rock on top of a mountain.

Pride’s black eyes, luminous through the cigar smoke, ~ darted over the crowds, and under the edge of his thick mustache the corners of his mouth moved slowly upward.

“Some town, eh, Tim?” he said. :

“Chicago suited me fine,” Tim complained. “Or, for that matter, San Francisco wasn’t too bad. I still don’t see why we had to come all the way back East.”

Pride looked at Tim, his big, rugged face filled with amused contempt.

“T saw in the paper last night,” he rumbled, “where there are more people in one square mile of this burg than in all of Chicago, Cincinnati and St. Louis. Hell, there are more people in sight right now than in all of San Francisco.”

“People!” Tim snorted, “What have people got to do with it?”

Pride gazed out over the crowds, seeing the men clinging to the outside of the horse-cars, the horses laboring under the load, so that the driver was forced to use his whip. As he watched, the team of a light delivery wagon and that of an ironmonger’s cart became entangled. One of the enormous policemen of the “strongarm squad” hurried out into the street and seized the reins of the bucking, squealing animals, while the drivers brandished their whips and screeched obscenities at each other. Pride raised his head and laughed aloud. Like everything about oe his laughter was big: belly-deep, bass-booming.

He stuck a playful thumb into Tim’s ribs.

“My town, Tim,” he said. “It’s my town, every inch of it!”

Tim stared at him.

“Could be,” he grunted, “but it seems to me that a heap of other people are going to have something to say about that.”

+ 9

“People, Tim. Where there’s people there’s money, Lots of money. I aim to get my share.”

“Knowing you,” Tim said, “I’d bet my last red copper you aim to get a hell of a lot more’n your share. Reckon you'll get it, too. You have before. Getting money ain’t your problem. Keeping it, is where you fall down.”

Pride frowned, his big face becoming for the moment serious. “I’m going to keep it this time,” he said. “See if I don’t.”

They moved off through the crowds, Pride towering ~ above the city men. There was more music now, for they were passing a row of concert saloons. Occasionally they could catch a verse or two. Pride’s grin broadened. The verses were bawdy. My town, he thought, damned if it isn’t!

Out of the concert saloons and the endless bars shuffied a slow stream of derelicts, filthy and in rags, their trembling fingers clutching the precious bottles they somehow had managed to obtain. Tim stared at them pityingly, but Pride gave them scarcely a glance. He was gazing with unconcealed pleasure at the thinly clad girls who darted occasionally from the side entrances of the saloons, and raced up the stairs into one of the shabby houses. Inside, they were awaited, Pride had no doubt. My town! he chuckled, my town!

On the edge of the sidewalk, the three-card monte operators and the artists of the shell game were unfolding their little tables. Next to them sat other men before exactly similar tables, Yet these men were entirely different: their dress was quieter, and they had an air of genteel shabbiness about them which hinted of better days. Pride stared at them. The tinhorn gamblers he had seen before, in the West from which he had so lately come, where they were even more of an institution than in the East; but these obviously well-bred men, who were just as obviously on the verge of starvation, were something new. As Pride . watched, they opened their small boxes and brought out steel pens and stiff white showcard papers. Then they bent over their tasks, the pens swirling into elaborate flourishes, torturing the letters into the shapes of birds and flowers, filling up the paper with a network of exquisitely drawn lines and words of beautiful Spencerian script.

These they exhibited upon the tables to attract custom-

10 :

we ers. Pride moved closer, still watching. The crowds milled around them. Pride straightened. Plainly a man could not make a living as a greeting-card writer. He was about to turn his attention to another of the varied sights of his new city, when one of the elderly writers was approached by a young woman,

Pride moved closer again, with Tim at his heels. He was bending over to see the old man’s dexterity put to a real test, when the girl spoke.

“Will you write a small showcard for me?” she said.

Something in her voice moved Pride deeply. It was, he realized, a beautiful voice, with a great deal of natural music in it. He brought his gaze up slowly from the little table to the girl’s face, and there his scrutiny lingered. For the life of him, he didn’t know why. The girl was thin and pale, and her nose was freckled. Her mouth was wide— especially for so thin a face—and her nose turned up at the tip. Yet, somehow, the whole face was pleasing.

Pride let his glance stray downward over the girl’s figure. Her body was as thin as her face. Good lines though, Pride thought. Hell, thoroughbreds aren’t fat. Only draft horses and brood mares. This one’s got blood and spirit.

The girl bent over the card writer’s table, oblivious of Pride’s gaze.

“Write this,” she said, and gave the old man a slip of paper.

Swiftly the penman began his work, the letters flowing from under the point of the pen. Dressmaking, Pride read, and Millinery Work. The Latest Modes, Ladies’ Hats Made to Order, Miss Sharon O’Neil, Prop.

The penman finished his task and the girl searched in her purse for a coin. Then she took the small showcard and straightened up. As she did so, her eyes met Pride’s.

He raised his derby.

“Mighty proud to make your acquaintance, Miss Sharon,” he said. “I trust business is good?”

Sharon O’Neil measured him with level brown eyes.

“The state of my business,” she said evenly, “is none of your concern.” Then with great dignity, she turned and walked away. For the first time, Pride noticed that her small head was crowned with a mass of soft, dark brown hair. In two long strides he overtook her,

“Oh, but it is,” he said. “Because if business ain’t so good, I’m fixing to buy you a nice dinner.” He looked down at her and grinned, “Heck, even if it is good, I’m going to.”

“I don’t know where you come from, Mr.—”

“Dawson—Pride Dawson, at your service, ma’am.”

“Mr. Dawson, in New York ladies don’t accept invitations from strange men.”

“Now look, Miss Sharon, we’re not strangers any more. I know your name and you know mine. Where I come from, folks are more friendly. And if you have to know more about me, I’d be mighty pleased to tell you my life _ story over some fried chicken. I'm a Southerner. Come

from the Red River Valley—near Colfax, Louisiana.”

“Mr. Dawson,” she said, “I haven’t the slightest interest in where you’re from or where you're going. All I ask of you is to stand aside and cease blocking the way.”

“Now, Miss Sharon,” Pride began, but Tim was pulling at his sleeve.

“For the love of Mike, Pride,” he prowhed: “will you stop pestering the young lady and come along?”

“Nicest young lady I’ve pestered in a long time,” Pride grinned. “But just because you’ve got a wife and kid waiting for you in New Orleans ain’t no reason for you to spoil my fun, Have a heart, Miss Sharon. I’ve been out West. I haven’t seen a nice girl in so long that—”

Sharon O’Neil’s head turned swiftly in the direction of the policeman who was directing traffic. He was the same . big man Pride had seen untangle the teams a short time ago.

“Must I call the officer?” she asked calmly.

Pride smiled. He was a good bit bigger than even the big policeman.

“I reckon I could handle him,” he said. “I haven’t seen the Yankee yet I couldn’t whip.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Tim snapped. “He’d blow that whistle and you’d have twenty of them on your neck in half a minute.” He turned to Sharon.

“Please, ma’am,” he said, “excuse my friend. He’s kind of impulsive.”

“So I see,” Sharon said and, in spite of herself, she smiled. Her teeth were even and white; when she smiled her whole face underwent a transformation. If it did not quite become beautiful, her face certainly became fascinating, as an alert sensitivity combed all its planes and angles into an enchanting revelation of the intelligence and spirit that lay behind it. I will never, Pride suddenly realized, forget this face.

“Good day,” Sharon said to Tim, “and try to teach him better manners.” :

“That,” Tim said drily, “is impossible.”

Pride was looking at the girl with intense concentration. Ive got to see her again, he thought, I’ve just got to! Then his eyes, moving, fell upon a curious feature of her dress. It had pockets, wide flaring ones, deliberately sewn in to hold the instruments of her trade. This in itself would have been sufficiently unusual to attract his attention, but at the moment he was thinking of something else—he was exulting over them as a godsend. |

“Good-bye, Miss Sharon,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.” As he spoke, he leaned forward and his hand moved faster than the eye could follow. When he straightened, his hand was empty, and the gold nugget reposed in Sharon’s wide flaring pocket.

The two men stood there, watching her walk away, until Tim, turning, saw that Pride was carefully noting the direction in which she had gone.

“You,” he said, “leave that one be.”

“Why?” Pride growled.

“She’s a nice girl—a real nice girl, Pride. What have you ever brought any woman besides trouble? This one’s different—she’s something kind of special.”

“Something kind of special,” Pride echoed. “Reckon you're right. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do her any harm. A gal like that could come close to making me change my ways—yessir, mightly close.”

On the corner Sharon had stopped, and stood now with her face averted, waiting for the horse-car.

“Come on,” Tim said, “I’m thirsty.”

“Wait a while,” Pride said, “we ain’t seen anything yet.”

They moved down the street, with Pride looking back every few moments at Sharon, past rows of tobacco shops, each with its wooden Indian before the door. Actually few of the elaborately carved polychrome statues, mounted on casters so that they could be rolled inside out of the rain, represented Indians. That vogue had passed almost ten years ago. Now Punchinello rubbed elbows with Lord

Dundreary, and a queued Chinese stood near a lady of high fashion. The only Indian in front of a tobacco store was not an Indian at all, but a carving of Edwin Forrest in the title role of the tragedy Metamore. Pride examined them. all carefully, but Tim was growing more and more tired of the aimless walk.

“Pride—” he began.

“I know, you’re thirsty. So’m I. Come on—we’ll have a drink.”

They turned toward the doors of one of the concert saloons from which shrill, tinny music issued. From the corner Sharon O’Neil saw them enter, and frowned... .

It was almost two hours later when Sharon O’Neil reached the lower end of Broadway once more. She had spent most of the time with her father in the shanty settlement north of Fifty-ninth Street. She glanced idly at the rows of awnings above the store fronts that extended all the way up Broadway to Grace Church, but she scarcely knew they were there. The clopping of the two horses that drew the Broadway Stage set up answering rhythms in her mind, but her thoughts moved in oblique tangents without any governing pattern.

Daddo’s sick, she thought. He’s too old for that sort of life. He’s worked himself almost into his grave, to give me an education. And for what? So I can die of slow starvation in that miserable little shop. He’s so proud of me, too

. tells everybody I’m in business. Business, indeed! I don’t remember when I’ve eaten a really decent meal.

That big man now—I wonder what it would have been like to have had dinner with him? He seemed kind. And he wasn’t really handsome—just big and healthy-looking. . . . Mercy, what on earth am I doing thinking of him?

She looked up now at the driver’s legs, which could be seen through an opening at the front of the stage. A stout leather strap was fastened to one of his legs. To stop the stage, one jerked the cord attached to the strap and pulled the driver’s leg. The miserable thief, Sharon thought bitterly; he’s short-changed me again. Doesn’t he know that some people can’t afford to be short-changed? Now I’ll have to have my tea without a roll, thanks to him.

She put her hand into one of the wide flaring pockets where, among other things, she kept some loose change,

-

She’d have to count it carefully now—stretch it to the limit to make it do. Then the motion was abruptly halted, her face frozen into blank incredulity—her fingers had closed over an object that had no business being there, something round and smooth, unlike anything that she owned. She drew it out and looked at it. It lay in her palm, glowing softly, and as she turned it the words leaped up at her: Pride Dawson—His Luck!

“How on earth!” she gasped; then, even as she said the words, she knew: Pride Dawson had put it there. And he had done so because he wanted to see her again. It was much too forward of him, but in her heart Sharon was not displeased. I'll have to give it back, she thought, as she reached for the cord to pull the driver’s leg; if he gets fresh Je ae

But just what would she do? She suspected that handling Pride Dawson would be no easy task. Still, she could not keep so valuable a gift from the hand of a stranger... . The stage jolted to a stop and she got down.

Now, she thought, I'll have blocks to walk and through the Whiskey Wards, too. But it was just about here that he went into that saloon—only a few streets over. If he’s gone the barkeep might know where he went.

She was walking now, straight down the side street toward the Bowery block where she had seen Pride earlier in the day. The street down which she was walking clung grimly to its respectability. It was unpaved, and every other house showed a broad expanse of dusty street in front of it where the frugal residents had refused to pay the fee for the watering cart. Sharon did not even glance at the houses or the street. Instead, she continued to walk, unconsciously increasing her pace, until, to her chagrin, she noticed she was almost running. By an effort of will, she slowed to a more sedate stride; but as she rounded the corner of the Bowery she was surprised by the beating of her heart.

Through the Bowery the crowds still moved, but nowhere was there.a big man who towered by more than a head above them. Sharon felt like crying.

“Now,” she said aloud in exasperation, “I'll have to go into that saloon!” Nothing could have been a greater ordeal for her. Slowly, reluctantly, she started to walk toward it. She stopped, looking at the swinging doors. All her fears of drunkards and drunkenness returned. But she could not bs)

stand there; the gold nugget must be returned. She lifted _ her chin and started out, but she had not gone ten steps when a saloon door across the street burst open, and a knot of struggling men boiled out into the street. In the midst of them, she recognized Pride. He was roaring like an angry bull and using his big fists with devastating effect; but the strongest arm in the world is of little help against a crowd of determined men, armed with brass knuckles and blackjacks.

She saw him go down and fall in the street, while his opponents proceeded to work upon his inert form with their boots, Tim was beside him, doing what he could to ward off their attack; but a smart clip to the side of the head sent him down beside his friend.

Sharon did not hesitate. She dashed across the street so quickly that both her slim ankles were plainly visible above her high-buttoned shoes, a fact which ordinarily would have caused her almost to die of shame. She sailed into the crowd of toughs, using her frilled umbrella as a weapon. Startled by this new rain of blows, Pride’s attackers whirled, their brass knuckles ready. But when they saw their small, modishly dressed assailant, they broke into roats of cheerful laughter.

“All right, lady,” they grinned, “you kin have your gentlemen friends. They ain’t so pretty now, but a hunk of beefsteak’ll fix that.”

“Cowards!” Sharon shouted. “Twenty of you against two! And look how you’ve hurt him! He’s all bloody!”

“He should of knowed better than to start a ruckus in Joe’s,” the leader of the gang said mildly. “Well, so long, ma’am. Treat him good tonight and he’ll fergit all about it!”

They turned then and trooped back into the saloon. Sharon knelt in the street, forgetful of the dirt, and tried to lift Pride’s big head into her arms. After a moment, she succeeded. Beside her, Tim groaned and sat up, shaking his head. Already a bluish semicircle was beginning to show below one of his eyes. He stared at Sharon with a look of open-mouthed wonder that slowly changed to admiration. His gray eyes traveled from her slim form to the broken umbrella that lay beside her on the street.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “You sure came just in time.”

i ae

“I’m afraid that your friend is badly hurt,” Sharon whispered. “Help me get him up. Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, ma’am. We hadn’t found lodgings yet. Now —we can’t. Damn Pride’s stupid hide!”

“You—can’t? I don’t understand.”

“No money! They must have doped Pride’s drink in there, and when he came to, he started a fight. You saw what happened after that. The money’s gone now... .”

“They took all your money?”

“Every cent—over three hundred dollars.”

Sharon frowned thoughtfully. Then her face cleared and a decisive line showed about the corners of her mouth.

“Let’s get him up,” she said. “We'll take him to my father’s place. Daddo will take care of him. Afterwards you two will have to find work.”

“Ma’am,” Tim said gratefully, “you’re a mighty fine lady.”

Between them, they got Pride Dawson to his feet and set out toward Broadway. Pride managed to mumble a word or two as they went, but what he said made little sense. They reached Broadway at the height of the rush hour, when most of the workers had completed their twelve to fourteen hours of daily labor. Sharon turned a despairing face toward Tim.

“We'll never get one now!” she said.

One glance showed Tim exactly what she meant. The stages had all gotten fresh horses and were racing uptown in a wild stampede. The drivers were fighting for fares, some of the more daring cutting in ahead of the others. The losing driver had to haul back on the reins with such force that his team reared, their forelegs beating the air in a frenzy, while the driver shrieked curses and lashed out with his whip at the man who had robbed him. Nearly all of them permitted small boys to ride on top of the stages— boys who had labored since long before daylight in the dusty shops and mills and who fought for the chance to remain in the open air. The drivers, Sharon knew, encouraged the boys—not because of any love for youth, but because they could pocket the fares, since the boys did not have to pass the coin box on the inside.

The boys were nimbly dodging the lashes of the enraged drivers. Tim looked at the spectacle in wonderment, but Sharon was almost weeping. Then one stage came along more slowly than the rest—an older, dirtier and more dilapidated stage than any of the others, drawn by horses which must have escaped the abattoirs and glue factories by a minor miracle. Wildly, Sharon signaled it, and it drew to a stop. At once she saw the reason for their good fortune. With the exception of one or two soddenly drunken Germans and Poles, the stage was filled with Negroes. She and Tim dragged Pride into it, Tim supporting him while she dug into her purse for the fares. A sign over the entrance read: Colored People Allowed to Ride in this Car,

“Pride’d have a fit,” Tim said, “if he knew this.”

“Why?” Sharon snapped. “They’re just as human as you or 1.”

“Yes’m,” Tim said mildly, “I reckon they are. Pride’s a bit peculiar, but you'll get used to him.”

Sharon did not answer. In fact, there was no answer she could give. Obviously, Tim took it as a matter of course that some sort of relationship would continue between herself and Pride Dawson. Yet, even during their brief acquaintanceship, Tim had revealed himself as being less than enthusiastic over Pride’s qualities.

The stage rattled steadily uptown, easily outdistanced by the faster vehicles. Above Forty-second Street the buildings became fewer, and by the time they had passed Fifty-ninth Street they were in open country. Somewhere in the vicinity of Sixty-eighth Street the stage stopped, while teamsters set about harnessing the “hill horses,” the extra teams necessary to drag the stage up the steep approaches to the village of Harlem.

Sharon turned to Tim.

“We'd better get off here,” she said. “This is about as close as we can get.”

Tim looked at Pride and saw that his eyes were open. Quickly, Tim glanced about the stage. All of the Negroes had gotten off somewhere between Thirty-fourth and Fiftysecond streets, to walk to the area along Sixth Avenue, where they lived. Tim heaved a sigh of relief. Pride would have raised a ruckus about those Negroes.

Sharon smiled gently at Pride.

“So you’re back with us,” she said. “Can you walk?”

“Reckon so,” Pride mumbled. Then: “Glory be! It’s you!”

wg

“Please,” Sharon said. “You’ve been hurt. You’d better be quiet.”

Tim and Sharon got down then, holding Pride between them. Pride was able to walk, though somewhat unsteadily. He was acutely conscious of Sharon’s shoulder beneath his arm, so that although his strength rapidly returned, he still pretended to be shaken and leaned heavily upon her.

They came to a path that ran upward among the rocks. Looking up, Pride could see the whiskered face of a goat staring solemnly down at them. There were chickens along the path, and pigs, to say nothing of numerous filthy urchins, their rags scarcely covering their nakedness, who ran like wild things at the approach of Sharon and the two men.

But the houses, once they had reached them, were stranger still: they were built of old packing cases or scrap lumber. From every fence and clothesline, bright festoons of colored rags fluttered, managing somehow to mitigate the grim impression created by the squalor.

Pride looked at Sharon.

“You live—here?” he demanded.

“Not any more, I did once, though.”

Pride passed a big hand over his brow, feeling the ridges of dried blood.

“Who would have thought it!” he said with genuine amazement.

Sharon turned on him, her brown eyes alight with sudden fire.

“Do you expect me to be ashamed, Mr. Dawson? My father still lives here. That’s where Pm taking you. And I’d better tell you one thing: there’s no prouder man on earth than Stan O’Neil. He can’t write his name, but he’s honest —and so are all these folk. They’re ragpickers—right enough. But digging in dumps and garbage scows for bottles and rags and old shoes hasn’t taken the heart out of them, or the decency. My father gave me an education— and starved himself to do it. So don’t expect me to apologize for these surroundings, Mr. Dawson!”

Pride shook his head heavily, as if to clear it.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sharon,” he said quietly. “It came as a. surprise. . . . But any place that produced you doesn’t need an apology. . . . Wish I could say the same for myself.”

He was now, though Sharon did not know it, in one of those dark, sullen moods that were the reverse side of his usually buoyant temperament, She’s sweet, he was thinking, sweet and good as a spray of Queen Anne’s Lace. Too good for me. Besides, she’s poor. Nothing plus nothing, Ma used to say, adds up to nothing—and “nothing” don’t chew like bread. I’m going up this time. I can’t be saddled with a woman who’ll take my mind off business. A gal like this would take your mind off most anything. . .